When We Were Very Young
by AVMabs
Summary: Ethan and Caleb grow up.
1. Chapter 1

Deborah Hardy smiled to herself – and then down at a mass of blankets in her arms – as the sound of light footsteps thundered closer and closer. They skidded to a stop, and heavier ones clunked behind them. The chink of metal on metal, and then:

"Don't you dare open that door, Caleb Louis Hardy."

The voice was deep and officious and the chinking stopped immediately. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal a man who might be described as rakish, if only his shoulders weren't so broad. He loomed over the young boy at his shins. He glanced down at the blankets in his wife's arms, grunted his acquiescence, and moved aside to allow some space for Deborah to enter the house.

The little boy stayed put at the threshold, grinning up at his mother. "Mummy!" he declared – and went on – "did you get to ride in the special black car?"

Dr Hardy cleared his throat. Caleb stared up to see that his father's lips were pursed, though the corners prick up. Caleb looked back at his mother, who had somewhat of a cheeky grin on her face.

"Come off it, John," she chuckled, "you know he doesn't mean a hearse."

A gentle whine began to pulse from the lump in the blankets in Deborah's arms. She cooed at it, giggling down as it wriggled against her arm. "It's alright, darling," she whispered, "mummy's not going anywhere in a hearse for a _very_ long time."

Dr Hardy placed a finger on Caleb's head. "She might be if she has to stay out in this cold for much longer. Out of the way, you."

Caleb traipsed to stand next to his father, allowing Deborah to step inside. She smiled at both of them as Dr Hardy closed the door behind her. Deborah entered the living room, the boys following behind her, and placed the blankets down on the living room floor. She knelt next to them with a fond smile playing on her face. She looked up at Dr Hardy and Caleb. "Who wants to see?"

Caleb bounded over to her and plopped himself down next to the blankets. He stared down at them and then beamed up at his father. "You can look," he offered. "There's a baby in here." He jabbed its face with his forefinger and giggled when it scrunched up its nose and made a cross noise in response.

Deborah placed a light hand on his arm. "You have to be gentle with him, Caleb," she said, "he's very little."

A shadow fell over the baby, and Caleb flinched back, but the shadow had no interest in him. Dr Hardy undressed the baby's blankets with meticulous attention paid to every blanket, as though it was sacred wrapping paper around a fragile gift that he daren't rip. He blinked down at it.

"Fat little thing," he decreed.

Caleb shrieked. "It's got a willy!" he cried.

Deborah snickered, but the Dr Hardy and the baby did not share the same sentiment. The baby scrunched up its face at the noise and began to shriek. Dr Hardy stared straight on at his older son. "Caleb," he placated, "your mother has warned you to be gentle with him."

Caleb looked down at the ground in shame, and Deborah laid a hand on his head. "Leave him be, John," she murmured, "a three year old's hardly an adult, is he?"

Dr Hardy sighed and rewrapped the baby, using his first two fingers to lay two firm pats on the baby's abdomen. Caleb watched as the shrieking ceased, but tears continued to slip down his face. He leaned forwards over it.

"It's okay, baby," he whispered, and thudded a hand onto its tummy. He wriggled as something took him from behind and made to lift him. He kicked at the figure, but it was bigger than him and took them like a rock would. He let out an angry squeak and made to bite the figure's arm.

"Caleb!" it snapped. Caleb silenced and allowed the figure to carry him from the room, quite limp.

Deborah gathered the baby in her arms. "Shh," she cooed, "shush, sweet, everything's okay."

 **O**

The baby dropped off to sleep soon afterwards. Deborah cradled him in her arms as she walked through to the kitchen. John was sitting at the glass table nursing a black coffee. He offered Deborah a wan smile as she entered, standing up from the chair. She returned the smile and held the baby closer to her chest.

"He's asleep," she whispered. As if on cue, the baby gave a minute snore. Deborah grinned up at John, who was smirking at it.

John advanced forwards and laid four fingers on the back of the baby's head, covering it completely. "I always think it one of the wonders of human development," he murmured, "that human babies leave the womb so unprepared for the outside world." He retracted two of his fingers and brushed the remaining two over a bulging spot on the baby's head. "There are bones here that haven't even fused together," he whispered and glared at the wall, swallowing.

Deborah rubbed at his arm. "You're allowed to feel emotional, John," she said. "Do it here so you don't take it out on little Caleb."

John cleared his throat. "I'm fine," he declared, deigning to ignore the second part. "I think we need to name him, Debbie."

Deborah giggled. "Oh, what's the name of the thing in comic that Sally next door bought her Andy…" she paused, "Donatello!" she declared. "Are you sure you don't want to call him Fontanello after that?"

She looked up at her husband, who once again had pursed his lips at her with the corners of them pricking up. "That," John said, "was bad."

The baby gurgled in his sleep, squeezing a laugh out of Deborah. "Baby thinks it's funny," said Deborah.

John drummed his fingers on the table top. "Baby still needs a name," he muttered, and groped around in his jacket pocket until he produced a list of names that had been folding twice. "There are at least 20 here, so we're spoilt for choice."

Deborah rolled her eyes.

 **O**

An hour afterwards, Caleb had not re-emerged from his bedroom. Deborah gathered the baby in her arms and declared that she was going to put him to bed. The stairs held the air of argument that had not yet been diffused. She felt most uncomfortable. She popped her head around Caleb's door to find him sitting on his bed with his knees pulled up to his chest.

"Do you want to come and put the baby to bed with me, Poppet?" she whispered.

Caleb shook his head and drew his knees closer to him. A warm hand lay on his shoulder and he stared up at its owner. Deborah was looking down at him with sad eyes.

"Why not?"

Caleb shrugged. "Don't wanna hurt him."

"Want to, sweet," corrected Deborah. She rubbed her hand across Caleb's shoulders. "And I don't think for a second that you'd hurt him; I can teach you how to hold him."

The small bed shook at the force with which Caleb's head snapped up. "Really?" he gasped.

Within ten minutes, Deborah was edging down the hallway with Caleb in her arms clutching the baby. She set Caleb down on the changing table and coaxed the baby from his arms.

"We're going to put him to bed now, see," she said, and laid him down on the mattress.

"Why's he not got a name?" asked Caleb.

Deborah tittered. "Has does have a name, darling," she said. "It's Ethan."

She kissed both sons on the forehead. "I'll read you both a bedtime story, and then it's time for sleep, okay?"

Caleb nodded. He was growing to like the idea of having someone else who could listen to bedtime stories with him, and he'd make sure that Ethan shared the same favourites as him.

He slept well that night.


	2. The Sticker

Eventually, Caleb grew to be gentler with Ethan. He also grew to read his Oxford Reading Tree books to him, in the hope that he might learn to read more quickly – and then he could read pages of bedtime stories to Caleb before sleep. He read the Oxford Reading Tree books because mum had said that reading Dennis the Menace to him would make him naughty. Father said that Dennis the Menace was a Bad Influence on Caleb too, but mum said that since father spent so much time at work, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. At one and a half, Ethan couldn't read, but he surprised Mum by being able to say lots and lots of words.

Mum said it was lots, anyway, but Caleb could still say more than him. Ethan didn't speak in sentences.

Today, he wouldn't speak at all. Caleb leaned in to the pram. "Hi, Ethan," he whispered.

Ethan grizzled in reply, and when Caleb stroked his shoulder with his hand he started to sob. Caleb retracted his hand and stood up.

"What's wrong?" he said. Ethan sobbed harder. Caleb sighed and turned around. "I'm going to tell mummy that you won't stop crying," he declared before stumping from the room.

On arrival in his mother's bedroom, she was sitting on the edge of her bed and dabbing something from a little black container onto her face. Caleb plodded in front of her and plopped down at her knees. She glanced forwards.

"Hello, darling," she said, removing the powder puff from her face. "Are you ready for your first day of primary school?"

Caleb grinned and nodded. "Ethan's not though," he said, "he cried when I said hello to him."

Deborah smiled and smoothed Caleb's hair from his face. "We'll have to go and tell him not to worry about you then, won't we?"

 **O**

Caleb was dismayed to learn that Ethan had not ceased crying. Deborah knelt at the pram and laid a hand over Ethan's head. She grimaced. Ethan quieted slightly. "Ow," he whined, and sniffed.

"Poor thing," murmured Deborah, and used her finger to gently wipe some of the moisture from Ethan's face. Caleb dropped to the ground next to her, chewing his lip.

"Is Ethan okay?" he asked, staring into Ethan's face as though he was truly baffled by Ethan's mood. Deborah rested her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"He's got a bit of a temperature," she said. She graced Caleb with a quick smile and ruffled his hair. "He'll be alright – you've had worse," she said. Caleb relaxed, quite reassured by his mother. He kissed Ethan's forehead once, beaming when Ethan quieted further. He gave his brother two small pats to the shoulder and then stood.

"Mummy, I'm going to go and find my school jumper," he said and ran from the room before Deborah could tell him that he should wear his ironed one. Needless to say, he emerged two minutes later in a wrinkled jumper. Deborah chuckled to herself and checked her watch. She sighed upon realising that they would not have time to change it.

"Come on then, you." Deborah took the handle of Ethan's buggy and held out a hand for Caleb to take. He squeezed her first two fingers. Ethan made a gurgling noise and reached up for Deborah. Deborah smiled. "I'll have all day to cuddle you," she whispered.

 **O**

The playground was filled with mothers – and some fathers. As soon as Caleb saw the small congregation of children running about, he broke from Deborah's grip and darted over to them. Deborah breathed a sigh of relief and pushed Ethan forwards to join some of the other parents. A tall black woman with a toddler on her hip turned to her and smiled.

"He's an excitin' one," she said, looking straight at Caleb. Her accent was strong and warm and Deborah couldn't help but to smile in response.

"Which one is yours?" asked Deborah, one hand resting on the handle of Ethan's buggy. She looked out at the group of children.

The lady pointed to a stumpy little boy who was grinning wildly up at Caleb. "That's my Terrence," she said, smiling. She looked at the toddler in her in her arms, who had one finger in her mouth and was staring down at Ethan. "And this is Claudine." She grinned. "Twenty months."

Claudine tore her finger from her mouth and pointed down at Ethan. "A boy!" she shrieked, excited.

Ethan grizzled, but took a moment to glance at Claudine all the same. Deborah laughed and kneeled down next to Ethan, beginning to undo the buggy harness. Ethan allowed Deborah to take him out of the pram and – similar to Terrence's mother – rest him on her hip. "What's your name?" Deborah asked, glancing up at Claudine and her mother.

Ethan worked on his lower lip with his teeth, still staring at Claudine as though he was worried that she might not like his name. "Eefan."

Deborah grinned. "Good boy, Ethan!" she cried.

Claudine's mother looked at her. "See, Claudine," she said. "This boy's name is Ee-th-an. Can you say that?"

"Ian."

Deborah laughed – light and grinning – and turned her attention to the woman. "Do you think we should let them play?"

The lady nodded and set Claudine down on the floor. The girl ran over to her brother as fast as her little legs could carry her. Terrence looked down at her and placed a hand on her head. Deborah watched as he stared up at Caleb, talking so fast about his little sister that for once Caleb was unable to get a word in edgeways.

Deborah tried to prise Ethan from her shirt. "Ethan, would you let go of mummy please?" she said. Ethan did so and Deborah placed him down. Ethan sat on the floor at his mother's feet, chewing on the sleeve of his shirt. "Ethan," said Deborah, "go and play."

Ethan shook his head. "No."

A loud dinging made Deborah jump, and she wheeled around in time to see a small brunette lady ringing a large brass bell. She watched, somewhat mesmerised at the way all of the children filtered into lines. A whine came from her feet and she looked down. Ethan had his hands over his ears and had begun to cry. She picked him up and held him close to her, trying to help him muffle the noise with her own hands. The other lady threw Deborah a sympathetic look before running over to pick Claudine up before she ended up in class with the four year olds.

 **O**

Ethan had not ceased grizzling by the time they arrived home, though he had begun to doze off in the buggy and Deborah deigned to put him straight to bed in his cot – it was bare and sterile, and Deborah always felt guilty putting him to bed in it. He fell into a restless sleep in a matter of minutes, leaving Deborah free to go downstairs.

She was sent back up to Ethan half an hour later by a loud wail. The toddler was lying on his back, sobbing. His eyes were open and darting around the room with wild intent, though they settled when Deborah came into view. She laid a hand on the crown of Ethan's head and picked him up, holding him close to her chest. She waltzed him into her own bedroom, laid him on the bed and left to fetch the thermometer. When she came back, her bed was stained with vomit.

She allowed herself a quiet sigh and kneeled on the other side of Ethan. "Open your mouth for me, sweet," she murmured. Ethan's jaw relaxed – just a little – and Deborah eased the thermometer under his tongue. It beeped and he moaned loudly, breath hitching at the peak like a wound caught on thread. Deborah glanced at the thermometer and made a faint noise of discontent. She brushed sparse strands of white blonde hair from Ethan's head and popped a kiss onto his forehead before standing to leave the room.

She moved the landline as close to her bedroom as the wire would allow – just in case, she thought.

She carried Ethan back to the nursery and sat with him for hours. At one o'clock, she tried to coax some milk into him, but he tightened his lips and looked to the side as if he was trying to turn his head. At two o'clock, Deborah left the room to arrange an appointment with their GP for the next morning. When she came back, Ethan was twitching on the cot mattress. Panic shot through her. She stood, frozen. Her face was blank; her eyes were wide and her lips parted – just enough to ease a straw through, if you were to try.

After minutes – Deborah guessed they were minutes – Ethan stilled. She extended a trembling hand to stroke his forehead, but upon accidentally knocking the edge of the crib, she withdrew it as though she had just touched fire. She flinched and scurried from the room.

She picked up the landline, cradled it close to her chest and then dropped to the floor and pushed the room to Ethan's door open with her foot so that she could watch him, her right leg twisted slightly under it. She punched John's number into the phone and held it to her ear, almost weeping with relief when the dial tone gave way to a fuzzy "Dr John Hardy. Can I help you?"

"John?" asked Deborah, furious at the way her voice trembled.

A sigh crackled down the line, followed by two faint taps. "For heaven's sake, Deborah, you're really not supposed to call me when I'm working…"

Deborah's breath hitched. "I-I think it's serious," she whimpered. "I think Ethan had a seizure; he's not well at all."

"Have you taken his temperature?"

Deborah flickered, so caught between Ethan and John that for a moment she couldn't remember whether she had or had not taken Ethan's temperature. She took a deep breath and combed through the day, jumping and clutching the phone when she remembered that she had. "Yes, yes. It was 38.8 at about ten thirty."

Another sigh crackled down the line, though it was heavier – graver – than its predecessor. "Bring him into Casualty," he conceded. The line went dead and Deborah put the phone down, frantically nodding her head in affirmation with John's suggestion.

Deborah stood up from the floor, allowing Ethan's bedroom door to swing closed. She made her way into the room, right ankle buckling slightly when she put weight on it. She twisted it on the spot and then put it down again – it was fine. Ethan's eyes were open when she entered the nursery. He wasn't making any noise, but there were patches of moisture on his cheeks and his forehead was glazed with sweat.

Deborah swallowed a lump in her throat and sniffed, resting a hand on her cheekbone and looking away for just a moment. She gathered Ethan in her arms and ran downstairs, holding him close to her. She rested him in her lap and dialled the number for the taxi firm. She was put through immediately.

"C-can I please have a taxi to Leeds General Infirmary?" she asked. Her heart sank to hear how much like a teenager she sounded. "Yes – Nine Armley Grange Drive," she murmured into the mouthpiece.

And then she waited, Ethan curled into her chest.

 **O**

Caleb was _buzzing_. His teacher had just given him a big red sticker for reading so well. He hopped off the chair and strutted back into the classroom. He made a beeline for Terrence, who was sitting at the numbers table and squinting at a handful of marbles, and plopped down into the chair next to him. "Look!" he said, "I got a sticker! When mummy and Ethan come to collect me I'm going to tear it and give the other bit to Ethan!"

Terrence gasped, his eyebrows flying upwards. He grinned and banged Caleb on the back in a most congratulatory fashion, and then held out his handful of marbles to Caleb. "I don't know what to do with these," he said.

Caleb opened his mouth to speak, but the classroom had fallen quiet. His teacher was standing at the front of the classroom – in front of a whiteboard with a neat alphabet printed onto it in green writing - with a hand in the air and the opposite finger on her lips. Caleb sat up straight, facing her with his shoulders wrenched back so that his chest stuck out and pressed his finger so hard to his lips that he created a pathway in the middle of them.

When the classroom hushed completely, she spoke. "I think it's time we put everything away," she said, "because your mummies and daddies are going to be coming to collect you soon – and we need to read a story before that."

The classroom became busy again. Terrence dropped his marbles into the box in the middle of the table and Caleb helped him to gather everything else on the table so that it was clear. When both were satisfied, they joined the handful of children who were already sitting cross-legged on the red carpet.

His teacher told a story about a lady who sneaks into his son's room to tell her she loves him every single night, even when he had been naughty. She looked a bit sniffley at the end, but Caleb thought it was a bit of a silly story.

Afterwards, the children lined up in two lines and held hands to file out of the room. Caleb held hands with Terrence and they stood in the playground together while they waited for their parents. Slowly, the children began to filter out of the playground – most of them chatting excitedly to their parents – like dregs of water in a cup. Caleb and Terrence were left – but it was okay, because they were playing 'it', which Caleb couldn't play with Ethan because he was too small, but it turned out that Caleb was a _very_ fast runner, and was good at 'it'.

Terrence's mother came along soon after that, Claudine once again at her hip. She fluttered into the playground and almost fell at the teacher's knees. "I'm so sorry," she clamoured. "I'm here for Terrence."

The teacher smiled. "Terrence!" she shouted. Terrence came running forwards and hugged his mother's legs.

"Hello, Claudine," he said brightly. Claudine giggled and waved down at him. Caleb stood at his teacher's side and watched as they left the playground. Terrence was chatting away to his mother and Claudine. Caleb chewed his lip and tugged at the bit of jumper around his sticker.

His teacher held out a hand to him. "Do you want to come and read a book whilst we wait for someone to collect you?"

Caleb brightened and nodded and took his teacher's hand.

 **O**

Deborah walked as quickly as she could through the doors to Casualty, still clutching Ethan to her chest. She relaxed to see John standing ready next to reception. He walked to meet her, holding his arms out for Ethan.

"Follow me," he muttered to Deborah, holding Ethan out in front of him as though he was an unidentified explosive rather than a child. He laid Ethan down on a bed and placed a thermometer into his ear. Ethan moaned. The thermometer beeped. John's eyes widened.

"40.3, Deborah!" he exclaimed. "You said it was 38.8!"

Deborah sighed, voice shaking. "I-it was, earlier," she muttered.

John shook his head. "Right, well I'm not allowed to treat him." He wrenched the curtain back. "We need IV penicillin and a lumbar puncture in here _now_ ," he barked. A young doctor and a considerably older nurse flurried into the room. John raised a hand. "Not you," he said to the doctor. "I want at least a registrar, not a House Officer. Find one." The young doctor scurried from the room. John placed a hand on the nurse's arm and blinked down at her, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Mandy?" he whispered.

She pursed her lips. "Just let me focus on putting his IV in, Doctor Hardy," she murmured.

Deborah clutched at her elbows. "What's wrong with him?" she asked.

John flinched upwards. "Something bad, Deborah, and he should have been brought in hours ago." He stalked over to Deborah and stood a few inches from her. "You'd best hope that your stupidity doesn't cost us another baby." His voice cracked and he bolted it closed, staring straight at the cubicle's curtain. Deborah's face crumpled and she clenched her teeth to try and muffle the sound she made.

Ethan began to wail from the bed. A loud gasping noise escaped John and he opened the cubicle curtain with a trembling hand and stepped outside. Deborah took a couple of tentative steps towards Ethan's bed. She looked at the nurse. "Can I touch him?" she asked.

The nurse smiled. "Of course." She laid a hand on Deborah's arm. "We're looking after him." She paused. "And Doctor Hardy." The two stood in silence for a moment; Deborah stroked Ethan's head whilst the nurse checked his vitals

Moments later, John came back with a pinched looking young woman. She brushed past Deborah. John stood next to her. "You'd best call Caleb's babysitter and tell her to bring him here."

Deborah glanced up at him. "What babysitter?"

John sighed. "For God's sakes, you _did_ arrange childcare, didn't you?"

Shamefaced, Deborah shook her head.

 **O**

Caleb chewed on his thumbnail. He stared up at his teacher, eyes filled with tears. "D-do you think they've for-forgotten about me?" he stammered.

His teacher sent a kind smile down to him, and he stopped crying – a little. "I'm sure that they haven't," she said. "Let's give it another half an hour before we give your mummy a call, alright?"

Caleb nodded, but they did not have to wait half an hour. Five minutes later, John Hardy burst into the room, nostrils flared. There was a vein sticking out at his temple, and Caleb noted that his eyes looked a bit red. His nostrils shrunk when he saw Caleb sitting with a book in his hands. "I'm Caleb's father," he declared.

He walked over to where Caleb was sitting as though walking a tightrope. "Come with me, Caleb," he said, and held out a hand.

Caleb shook his head. "I want mummy."

John sighed. "Your mother is at the hospital because Ethan is very sick. You will see her soon."

There was a loud bang, and both John and Caleb's teacher jumped. Caleb had slammed the book down onto the table. "Why couldn't _you_ stay with Ethan? Mummy's better than you!"

John clenched his fists against his sides. "Caleb, I'd like you to apologise to me and to your teacher, and then I'd like you to come with me, please."

Caleb's teacher kneeled down to eye level with Caleb. She had a mole on her right cheekbone. Caleb stared at it. "You need to go with your daddy, Ethan." She smiled at him and stood up, holding a hand out for him. He glared at it for a moment before deciding to take it. "We'll read another story tomorrow, okay?" she said, and lead Caleb's hand to his father's.

John shot her a very grateful look as they left the room.

 **O**

Later – much later – Ethan was connected to several tubes and wires. John went through them all with Deborah, who tried to do the same with Caleb. Caleb refused to enter Ethan's room, or speak to Deborah. He sat on a chair outside PICU with a Healthcare Assistant and a storybook and read out loud whilst Deborah sat with Ethan and John flagged down paediatricians to try and discuss Ethan's care with them.

The Healthcare Assistant had explained to Caleb that Ethan had an illness called 'men-in-jie-tiss'. Caleb explained to her that you stop at the end of _sentences_ , not words – and that she should try again. The woman giggled a little – and Caleb didn't understand why.

"Your little brother has something called meninjietiss," she said. "It means that his brain is poorly and he's not able to fight it on his own."

Caleb made a face. "That's stupid," he said. He sighed loudly. " _Ethan's_ stupid. And mummy. She didn't even come and collect me after school today."

The moment he said it, Deborah came from inside Ethan's room. She was pale and drawn and her eyes were swollen and watery. She held a trembling hand out to Caleb, which he took wordlessly. "Come on," she said. "It's hours past your bedtime." She and Caleb left the hospital together, silently.

The torn remains of a red sticker lay lifeless on the hospital floor.


	3. Cat's Cradle

John Hardy pushed his key through the keyhole, leaning forward to provide the necessary momentum to open the door. He staggered inside, glancing upwards at the pitch black sky before pulling the door back towards him, flinching when it slammed. He glared at the stairs for a moment before sighing and trudging into the living room. He crumpled onto the sofa and pulled the throw over his body. He was asleep in minutes.

And he was awoken, six short hours later, by someone rubbing at his arms. He blinked his eyes open, shielding them from the light. "It's eight thirty," she murmured.

John shot upright. " _Eight Thirty_!" he exclaimed. "God, Mandy, you shouldn't have let me sleep for so long." He let the throw slip from his shoulders. It had been covering his suit jacket, which was now absolutely wrinkled. He made a noise of exasperation.

"If you'd come up to bed," said Mandy, "it wouldn't have been an issue."

John grumbled incoherently before letting his feet hit the floor. "Right," he said. "You'd best go to work first and I'll take a shower."

 **O**

John arrived home to Deborah approximately 14 hours later, still unchanged. She answered the door before he had a chance to knock on it. He squinted down at her.

"You were waiting there?" he said.

"Shh," she whispered, "Caleb is asleep."

He looked her over more closely. She had lost weight, he noted, and as a result her clothes had begun to fall around her body like wind during a fall. He took her shirt and rubbed it between his fingers. He sighed.

"You need new clothes."

Deborah pursed her lips and swallowed. "You didn't come home last night." She paused. "Did Ethan sleep through it all?"

John blinked. His breath caught in his throat; he didn't know whether Ethan had slept the whole night. He let the breath out and scrubbed over his face with his left hand. "I don't know," he muttered. "They told me to go home at about one."

Deborah touched her right hand to his face. He flinched, face contorted for a moment, and then he relaxed into a sharp glare. Deborah withdrew her hand and slipped it into the crook of her elbow. She blinked gently up at John. "You didn't come home," she said. "John."

He sighed again, deep and gritty. It pulled from his throat and he swallowed for lubrication. "I'm going to bed. You can collect Ethan and bring him home tomorrow morning," he said.

Deborah came to bed twenty minutes later. She lay unmoving in her nightgown as John rolled off on his side, still wide awake. The bed was cold and – even with two people in it – it felt empty. Deborah chewed on her lip, a childhood habit that she had not at 35 managed to break. She chewed too hard and could not avoid a squeak of pain as blood began to trickle onto her tongue. John made a weak noise of annoyance before falling quiet. Deborah held her hand up to the bleeding patch on her lip in silence.

"Love you, Debbie," John murmured.

Deborah didn't respond.

 **O**

Deborah awoke to a desolate space next to her at five-thirty on Sunday morning. It had been smoothed down and the duvet was tucked into the mattress. The pillows were fluffed. Deborah swallowed hard, somehow stricken by the state of this plateau: John had made his bed. John and Deborah Hardy, she thought, shared nothing – now – except a surname. She threw her own covers off and stared at her side of the bed. It was still marked with sick stains from two weeks ago, and there were patches of reddish brown on the pillow from where her lip had been bleeding the night before, and another patch of the same colour from where her period had arrived unannounced three weeks before that. She clenched her fists and then lunged forwards and tore the duvet up over the mattress cover.

She breathed.

Calmer, she sighed and trudged into the nursery. Ethan's cot had been deserted for half a month. She glanced at it and cringed. Pulling the cupboard door open, she stared up at the blankets on the top shelf. She wished dearly that John would allow her to cover Ethan in one of them – for comfort when he was so poorly, or for warmth in January. She pushed the thought aside. After Naomi, she ought to have learned her lesson.

She pushed the doors closed, sucking in air like water.

 **O**

Two hours later, she had taken a shower and forced down half a cup of cereal and a cup of tea and flipped over the bloodied pillow. She used the tips of her fingers to push the door to Caleb's bedroom open. The walls were painted a neutral blue, though he had wanted red. John had said that red was too smothering, too stimulating, and everyone had left it there. His bedcovers, however, were printed with bright red fire engines. An odd looking man with an oversized head and an even more oversized hard hat was hopping from the engine door in each printed image. Deborah sat down on the covers and placed a hand on Caleb's shoulders. She shook him.

Blue eyes blinked open, and a tiny hand extended from under the sheets. It reached out blindly, not yet awake. Deborah wrapped their owner in the duvet and gathered him in her arms. She rocked the half-asleep baby – because, really, that's what he was – back and forth. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

He made a squeaking noise and burrowed into her arms.

"Good morning, sweet," she whispered.

He made a contented noise and greeted her with a sleepy smile and – heavens – those blue eyes blinked up at her.

"You have baby-blue eyes," she crooned. "Ethan's went brown like daddy's a month after he was born, but you're going to be my baby forever, aren't you?"

Caleb giggled into the crook of her elbow. "Yes," he murmured, rubbing his eyes.

She stroked a particularly errant patch of hair from his forehead. "We're going to bring Ethan home from hospital today," she said. "I'd like you to come with me."

All of a sudden, Caleb's eyes hardened, as though his soul had fallen asleep in order for his mind and body to wake up. He sat up straight and wriggled off of Deborah's lap, still half tangled in the duvet cover. "Don't want to."

Deborah took a deep breath. "I wouldn't want to leave you on your own here, Caleb," she said.

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter," he said. "Used to you leaving me places."

"Caleb…"

Caleb stomped his foot. "Go away!"

And Deborah, unable to handle one of Caleb's full blown tantrums, did as he asked.

 **O**

Caleb traipsed downstairs a few minutes later, dressed in a most unflattering combination of pair of knee length shorts and a school jumper that was once again newly dry and not yet ironed. He stood in the living room's threshold and crossed his arms, watching Deborah assemble the buggy for use. After two minutes, he huffed and rolled his eyes.

"You're _supposed_ to put that screw _there_ ," he cajoled, pointing at the shiny black screw Deborah had in her hand. "I suppose I _am_ going to have to come with you to make sure that you don't drop and kill Ethan on the way home."

Deborah pursed her lips. "Don't joke about Ethan dying, baby," she said.

Caleb sighed the sigh of someone who had had a very long and tiring life and – coming from his four year old lungs – it was almost funny. "I'm sorry," he said, though he didn't sound very sorry. "I will come with you so that I can fix the buggy."

Deborah, her hands still trembling slightly, turned to Caleb and fixed him a weak smile. He didn't return the favour, but he dropped his hands to his sides and stared at the wall just past Deborah. He glared at her when she squinted at him.

" _What_?" he challenged, looking much older than four.

She blinked. "Sorry, darling. Why are you wearing your school jumper on a Sunday?"

Caleb huffed. "Look, do you _want_ me to come?" He crossed his arms and glared at her, tilting his head and quirking his eyebrows upwards

 **O**

Ethan had lost weight, Deborah thought, as she picked him up. She thought that it was an odd thing to think about a child who was not yet two. She brushed his hair back, lingering with relief on the coolness of his forehead – such that she had to swallow twice to unstick the lump in her throat. She hoped that the doctor had told Ethan that he was going home today; Ethan so hated changes to his routine.

She gathered him in her arms, smiling into his eyes as she bundled him into the buggy (aided in assembly by Caleb, who had deigned to sit outside with the healthcare assistant and another storybook). He whined, a cross noise from the back of his throat, and glared up at Deborah as she began to pull the black straps across his tummy. "No!" he demanded.

The ward sister smiled from the side of the bed. "It's nice to see him a little livelier," she said in a strong Irish brogue.

Deborah grunted in response and kissed Ethan's forehead in a feeble attempt to calm him down. He shook his head and kicked with his feet, on the verge of a full tantrum. "Come on, sweet," she whispered.

"No!" Ethan shouted again.

The ward sister offered Deborah a weak smile and she too kneeled in front of the buggy. She placed two firm fingers on the top of his wrist. He stilled and stared at her, eyes wide and tearful. "You need to follow your mam's instruction like a good boy," she said. He closed his mouth and looked at Deborah, still tearful.

Deborah relaxed and broke into a gracious smile. "Thank you so much," she said. She gestured at Ethan. "You've done so much for him." She stood and shook the ward sister's hand before pushing Ethan from the room and into the hallway where Caleb was sitting with the healthcare assistant.

"Are you ready to go home?" asked Deborah.

Caleb rolled his eyes and closed the book. He wriggled from the chair and stared up at the Healthcare Assistant. She gave him a generous smile and then beamed up at Deborah. "He's very clever," she said, pointing down at Caleb.

Deborah nodded politely. "Yes, he is," she said, and rested a hand on Caleb's head. He shrunk away from it.

"Can we just _go_?" said Caleb.

Deborah sighed and offered the healthcare assistant one last smile before glancing down at Caleb. "We need to stop and see Daddy first, and then we can go."

 **O**

Downstairs, Deborah gave the door two soft knocks and waited. The air seemed thick for a moment too long before John opened the door, a glazing of sweat covering his forehead and his over-bright eyes giving the distinct impression that he was possessed by something primal and unrestrainable. They widened and relaxed upon seeing Deborah with the children. He sighed and stood aside.

"Hello, Deborah," he said, voice rough and breathless. "Come in."

Deborah took a few tentative steps into the room. John closed the door after her. Another woman was leaning slightly on the wall, trying to smooth out her uniform, which was neither ironed not pressed. She was a few years older than Deborah, Deborah thought. She had brown hair – mousy – with a few strands of greying hair strewn across the top of her hair as though they had been forced from a particularly solid place. She straightened up upon seeing Deborah and gave her a polite smile before her eyes dropped to Ethan. She gave him a no-nonsense smile. "Hello, young man," she said. "I hope that you're better than the last time I saw you."

Ethan clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, bored. Caleb glared at him. John sighed from across the room. "Yes, Mandy," he said. "Ethan has been discharged." He paused for a split second – not for long enough for Mandy to add anything. "Why are you here, Deborah?"

Deborah's face broke into a bright smile. "I thought we could have lunch as a family," she said. "Ethan's out of hospital, after all."

Mandy smiled at Deborah. "I think that's a wonderful idea," she said.

John did not share the same sentiment. "Perhaps you do, Mandy, but you are not a member of this family, and my wife's idea does not apply to you." He opened the door. "I'm working, Deborah," he said. "You may cook a celebratory dinner. Do not bother me at work again."

 **O**

For the first time in months, John came home from work on time. He pushed past Deborah into the kitchen, where Caleb and Ethan were sitting in place. Ethan was pulling absently on the rim of his high chair's table. He sat at his place at the table without saying a word. The oven was channelling the silence into something that was only slightly less awkward.

Soon enough, Deborah came trailing into the kitchen behind him. She glanced around at the boys and plastered a smile onto her face. "Hello, gentlemen," she chirped.

John rolled his eyes. "I suggest you focus on the meal, Deborah."

Silenced, Deborah did so. She served the food in silence. Ethan prodded at his food with his spoon, exhibiting something that was not quite dexterity as he tried to feed himself. Caleb glared at him. "That's _not_ how you do it, Ethan," he snapped, then mumbled a "so stupid."

John heaved a great sigh, his temples pinching together. "Caleb," he said magnanimously. "Ethan cannot be expected to eat without making a mess. I suggest you behave."

 **O**

Later that night, Deborah and John lay side by side in bed as though unstruck matches. Deborah inched her hand over to rest on top of John's. He snatched it away and shoved both hands under the bedcovers.

"You're in a foul mood tonight, John," whispered Deborah.

John sighed and turned his head to the side. He said nothing for a moment before taking a deep breath. "I know," he said. His voice was hoarse. "Things kicked off at work – I'm sorry." He allowed Deborah to squeeze his hand before pulling it away.

"Mandy seems very kind," said Deborah.

"Yes," he said. "She is." He rolled off on his side, allowing Deborah to curl into the crevices of his body. She touched a gentle hand to his temple and smoothed out the crease that seemed left over from dinner. He remained tense.

"You did very well," murmured Deborah. "I mean – when Ethan was poorly – you did well."

John grunted. "You need to change the sheets."

And the rest was silence.


	4. The Changeability of Menfolk

Deborah tapped her foot against the floor, wringing her hands. Her neglect of Caleb had become the subject of much playground gossip, and she had become somewhat of a villain among the other mothers. Nobody let their toddlers play with Ethan before school – not that Ethan, at one and a half, cared very much, but it had been playing on Deborah's mind for a whole week.

Perhaps she should suggest to John that they invest in a private education for Ethan. She shook her head. John would never allow that – and, besides, Caleb deserved nothing less than Ethan, and paying to privately educate _both_ children was too much at the moment, considering Deborah's own state of unemployment. Her eyes darted to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. She flinched. It was already three.

"Come on, sweet," she said to Ethan. She crossed the room and picked him up from where he was playing in front of the fireplace, doing her best to ensure that she didn't let him bang his head on the fire guard on the way up.

She looked in his eyes. John's eyes. They were the colour of rotting tree. She bit hard into her lip, enough to draw a metallic tang onto her tongue.

" _Parents, do not exasperate your children,"_ she murmured. _"Instead, bring them up in the instruction of the Lord_." She cleared her throat and steadied Ethan on her hip, gracing him with a quick, mouthy smile. "Pram or walk, love?"

"Walk!" cried Ethan.

Deborah set him onto the floor and held her hand out to him. He took it. She had left the pram already set up in the kitchen. She was glad that prams today were so light; Caleb's pram had been too heavy to assemble and dissemble without John's assistance.

Ethan toddled along beside her, made up in a pair of light blue dungarees. She hadn't bothered telling him to take his shoes off the last time they came back home – there was no point. He clung to her fingers with a sticky left hand; it seemed that Ethan really was going to be a problem child, for that seemed to be the hand he favoured.

She gave her already chewed lip a hard suck. There was little point in dwelling on past conceptions and practises. Besides, John was left handed and there was nothing wrong with John – not really.

They turned the corner onto the next block of houses. On it was a toyshop painted in bright red, shined and varnished. She pulled Ethan faster along.

"We'll look at the toys with Caleb, sweet."

One of Ethan's fingers flew to one of the toys in the window. "A train!" he shouted.

A faint smile ghosted over Deborah's face, and she squeezed Ethan's hand. He was as clever as John, too. "Good boy!" she crooned. "Can you tell me what colour it is?"

Ethan gurgled. "Red!"

"That's right!" said Deborah.

If nothing else, the conversation had lifted Deborah's spirits enough for her to lift her head up and push her shoulders back as she walked into the playground. Some scattered mothers shot her dark looks. She pretended she didn't see them, and hoisted Ethan onto her hip.

He wriggled for a moment before deciding that allowing his mother to hold him was a necessary concession. He clung onto the collar of her blouse.

Deborah checked her watch. Caleb would be coming out of school within five minutes. She braced herself. He was still so cross with everyone, though his teacher remained steadfast in her claims that he was 'a joy to have in lessons'.

As if summoned by her thought, Caleb's class filed out of the classroom in twos, clearly having been instructed to hold hands. Caleb was holding hands with Terrence. Deborah relaxed; at least her older son's friends had not all been ordered to desert him overnight. Indeed, Caleb looked quite content, chatting away to Terrence, who appeared to be becoming smaller every time Deborah saw him, in the same way that Caleb's clothes seemed to become more and more ill-fitting as each day passed.

Such a tall, healthy boy.

Deborah ghosted a thumb over the back of Ethan's hand, prompting him to grace her with a weak squeeze. She watched Caleb's teacher as though looking through the lens of a cheap camera. Her exaggerated smiles and points seemed small and far away, like somebody had tiptoed into the playground in some rare split second in which Deborah had not been focussing on Caleb and removed him from her.

And then, without Deborah realising at all, he had walked over to her. She glanced down at him. "Hello, love," she said.

"Mm."

Caleb turned around and started to walk from the playground, leaving Deborah to run after him. Soon enough, they were walking along the road again, Caleb leading the way past blocks and blocks of houses. They were all red brick, yet they seemed grey and dank in the afternoon sun. Having grown up in the Devon countryside, coming to Leeds, which didn't even class as a second rate Liverpool – let alone a second rate London – was a most unwelcome shock to her system.

The sight of the bright red toyshop looming above her made Deborah jump and set her nerves on edge, and her hand flexed and her heart sped up as Caleb ran over to it and pressed his face to the window. Even from her strange underwater state, Deborah could see that he was staring at the toy train. She took a deep breath and smiled at Caleb.

"Would you like to go in, love?"

Caleb spun around. His mouth opened and his eyes gleamed. Deborah's heart jumped into her throat at the mere thought that she might just have managed to connect with Caleb – it was what she had wanted to do for the past two weeks, after all.

Caleb's eyes dulled, and his mouth closed. He shook his head. "Toyshops are for _babies_." His eyes wandered up to where Ethan was balanced on Deborah's hip, and he snorted through his nose like a horse and gripped the handles of the pram, though he had to reach up to do so. He pushed it along in front of him, evidently quite pleased with himself for doing so.

"Careful, sweet," warned Deborah, tightening her grip around Ethan so that he made a noise of discomfort.

The warning made Caleb walk faster. He was more than able to push a pram by himself, thank you very much, and he didn't need silly warnings from people who _didn't_ know how to put prams together. He sped up as he turned over the crest of a hill – and then his feet were moving too quickly for him to grip the pram and run at the same time. The pram slipped from his grasp and rolled down the hill at breakneck speed, and Caleb slipped over onto his hands.

Deborah sprinted forwards to where Caleb was lying on the ground, red-faced and tearful. Deborah kneeled down in front of him and took his wrists in her hands. He tore them away from her as violent and bitter sobs ripped from his chest.

"Baby?" she whispered.

Caleb shook his head, glaring the patches on his hands where his skin had ripped raw. He sniffed as hard as he could and screwed up his mouth. "Go and get the pram," he ordered.

Deborah fidgeted for a moment. If she went to get the pram, she would have to leave Caleb alone.

Ethan shifted in Deborah's arms, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Of course she didn't have to leave Caleb there. There was a moral argument within this – whether or not it was okay to leave a four year old with a 19 month old, and it flitted through Deborah's mind – but there was no other choice, she thought.

She set Ethan on the ground next to Caleb. "Look after each other. I won't be a minute."

Caleb glared into Ethan's eyes and he knew that his eyes were better because they were blue and Mum had said she liked his blue eyes. "This is your fault," he spat, still trying to control his sniffling.

Ethan sucked on his finger, disinterested in what Caleb had to say. There was a far more interesting leaf by his knee; it was red.

"If you hadn't got ill," said Cal, his voice thick and resentful, "then I wouldn't have got cross with Mum and I wouldn't have pushed the pram away from her." He paused for a second to take in the leaf which had Ethan so absorbed.

In one moment of deep childish cruelty, he reached forwards and ripped it to shreds, ignoring the way that the harshness of the leaf made the wounds on his hands sting with bitter retribution.

Ethan's face crumpled, his eyes beginning to fill and his mouth beginning to open.

The first tear dribbled down Ethan's face and caught on his nose, and in the single second that it took for the fluid to drop down to the baby's chin, Caleb realised that he had just been mean. He swallowed. He wasn't a mean boy; his teacher always told him to look after Simon Thripp after _he_ started crying. He strode over to the bush from which the leaf had come on wobbly legs and pulled a new leaf from it. He set it down at Ethan's knee.

"There," he said, and patted Ethan's back. A horrible feeling was building up in his chest, and it made him feel like he was still angry with Ethan. He wiped his nose and stared down at Ethan with all the intensity he could muster. The sound of wheels trundling nearer and nearer drew Caleb's attention, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets as though hiding the executioners of the guilty act would disguise the guilty intentions.

Deborah gave the boys a wan smile as she pushed the pram back up the hill. "The pram's not broken!" she called.

Caleb tried to plaster a smile onto his face, but he couldn't, so he just turned away and looked down at Ethan. "Get into the pram, Ethan," he ordered.

Ethan remained on the floor, fiddling with his shoes.

Deborah picked him up and strapped him into the pram. Ethan pointed at the leafy bush. "Red!" he said.

Caleb swallowed. A few patches of red were beginning to seep into the grey of his shorts pockets.

 **O**

The phone rang out through the house. Deborah gave a quiet huff of discontent; the boys were both asleep – it was ridiculous that somebody would call at 10 in the evening.

"Hello?" she answered, the smallest hint of annoyance oozing into her tone. "Oh, John. No, no – it's fine if you can't come home tonight; I just…" She paused. John continued to speak into her ear, disinterested in the fact that his wife was mid-sentence. And then – "Oh, Goodness, John! I had completely forgotten – I don't have any present money." Another pause, and then a sigh crackled down the lines and into Deborah's ear. "Thank you. Thank you. Sorry. Will you, um – will you be home for his birthday? Yes, yes, of course you can bring Mandy."

She set the phone down. At the very least, she knew what she might buy Caleb for his birthday, even if she _hadn't_ remembered that it was going to be on Saturday. She had a single day for present buying.

She trudged upstairs. Two months ago, she would have kept a list to remember things like this. That habit had dissipated, however, with John's increasing hours spent away from home. She stripped of her clothes and collapsed onto the bed without putting her nightdress on. She rolled the duvet around her body and hated herself for thinking that the bed was so much more a comfort when John was not in it.

She didn't sleep much that night. Again.

 **O**

The doorbell rang, and footsteps thundered through the hallway. Deborah relaxed some, her guilt and worry easing at the prospect of John having actually _showed up_ for Caleb's birthday. She pulled the door open and plastered a smile onto her face.

John had put on weight. His face was fuller and his shoulders broader and he smiled when he saw her in such a way that mimicked their wedding, and when he laid a chaste kiss on her cheek, it seemed that he had become Lord Byron. Deborah's face flushed red and she took on a sweat. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. "The birthday boy is through here," she breathed, and turned towards the living room.

Mandy had taken on a blinding interest in her dress pockets.

"Hello, Caleb," said John, ignoring Ethan.

Mandy tiptoed over to Ethan and held him out in front of her. A gentle smile ghosted over her lips. "Ethan's come on in leaps and bounds since he was discharged," she said.

John spun around. "Mandy," he said, his voice low and dominating. "Ethan is not your child."

Deborah reached out a hand and pressed it into the crook of John's elbow. "John," she murmured. "It's okay."

John pressed his lips together, screwing them up, and then took a deep breath and kneeled down in front of Caleb. "I think it's time that we open your presents, young man."

Caleb's face lit up; he had been looking forward to this part of his birthday all day. He tore into the wrapping paper, eager to see what he had been given by 'the birthday fairy', as his mother described the gift giver. She must be one of Santa's friends, he thought – and for a brief second he wondered if it was as impossible for birthday fairies to get through all those chimneys as it was for Santa. He decided not. Much less people had birthdays than they did Christmases at a time.

He had revealed sweets and some stickers, and one present remained lying in the middle of the room in perfect red wrapping paper. He dove for it and ripped it open. His heart leapt into his throat and the empty space it had left filled with excitement, until his jaw fell open and he made a loud noise of pleasure. It was the train!

"Thank you!" he shouted.

Deborah smiled and ruffled his hair, and he let her.

"Mummy," he said, "how did you know?"

"Ethan saw you looking at it on Thursday, sweet," she said, in the hope that perhaps the train might fix that problem, too.

Caleb swivelled around to look at Ethan, and he beamed with gratitude. How lucky, that Ethan was so perceptive – and he _hadn't_ forgotten that Ethan had upset him so much earlier.

Mandy kneeled at Caleb's side. "That's a steam train." She enunciated all of her syllables to Caleb like she hadn't done for John, and Caleb screwed up his face at her.

"I _know_ ," he said.

John stood up. "I'm sorry, Deborah," he said, "but Mandy and I really must be getting back to work, now."

For a moment, Deborah's eyes darkened, and she cast her lips to the floor in disappointment, because it hardly seemed fair to her that John should stop by for all of half an hour and then leave again. She straightened her back and pressed her lips together.

"Yes, that's fine."

 **O**

Caleb lay in his bed, staring at the clock on the wall. It was shaped like a football, because Caleb liked to play football. It was also an Anna Log clock. His teacher said it was very clever of him that he could read Anna Log's clock. Anna Log was telling him that it was 10:45. He wondered if Mummy was asleep now, and he thought she probably was, so he slid out of bed and tiptoed down the hall into Ethan's nursery.

He pushed the door open with the tips of his fingers. Ethan was asleep in his cot with one thumb in his mouth and his eyes screwed shut. He didn't have a blanket covering him, which Caleb thought was a bit sad, but Mummy had explained that it was because blankets could be dangerous when they shared beds with babies. He rummaged in his pocket for something and once he had found it he pressed it into Ethan's hand.

"I'm sorry I tore up your leaf," he whispered. "Here's a new one."

Caleb stood over Ethan in his cot for a few minutes, though the baby didn't stir, and only when Ethan clenched the leaf into a fist in his sleep did Caleb relax. He pulled the door closed with all the quietness he could gather and tiptoed back to his own bedroom, pulling his knees up to his chest and falling asleep within seconds.

* * *

 **I feel like here is an appropriate time to say that I _am_ still on semi-hiatus (details of which can be found on my profile), but due to the fact that it is a variation of NaNoWriMo at present, I am attempting to push myself to write more. My anhedonia has eased during this, so I am going to call that a sort of success, and hopefully I might manage the next five or so chapters over the course of the month! **

**Thanks for reading, and please do tell me what you thought: constructive criticism is more than welcome, and so are suggestions on cleaning up future bits of text that read like that awful phonecall this chapter!**


	5. Little Tom Thumb

The next three years passed without much incident. As Ethan learned to hold a conversation and Caleb learned to stand his ground in an argument, he and Caleb began to bicker with increasing frequency. They were good children, however, and it was clear from both of their manners that neither of them meant the other any harm; they were seldom violent and often helpful towards their mother, who liked to remind them that given their father's absenteeism, they were now the men of the house.

Caleb enjoyed this responsibility, and could often be found preening and ensuring that he was fulfilling each task his mother set. Ethan, too, fulfilled each task set to him, though to a more diminutive extent. He just wanted to get jobs done, he thought, as he fiddled with the button on his jumper.

He chewed at his thumbnail. Things would be okay, he thought, because Caleb liked school, so he would like school as well. He had to tell himself that, otherwise he would cry when he said goodbye to mummy. He clenched his fists and stuffed them into his pocket. He didn't want to say goodbye to mummy. He wanted to learn things, though. Caleb said he'd learned to read books all by himself at school.

Ethan could read books all by himself, but he wanted to read more books all by himself, like the big books that Dad sometimes left on the kitchen table. They were huge and thick and they didn't have very many pictures, but Ethan bet if he could read books like those by himself he'd be able to read books in _Tagalong_ , which – he told mummy – was the language that Philip Pine spoke.

She had laughed and stroked his head and told him he was clever. He liked that Mummy thought he was clever.

He glanced up at the door and then gasped in pain. He'd ripped his hangnail off. Blood was beginning to pool around the corner of his thumb. He ran from his room to go and find Mummy.

Deborah turned around and smiled when Ethan walked into the kitchen. "Do you want cornflakes, sweet?"

Ethan shook his head and stuck his thumb out to her. "It's bleeding!" he said. He wasn't wrong. Blood had dribbled down to the joint of his thumb.

"Oh, Ethan," Deborah sighed. Her voice was soft but her face pinched. "What have we said about biting nails?"

Ethan scuffed the toe of his foot against the floor, glaring down at it. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay, love," said Deborah. "I'll go and get you a plaster."

Caleb stumped into the kitchen, shoulders pushed back and a badge printed with 'School Council' on his jumper. He surveyed the room, and then parted his lips in surprise. "Mum," he said, "Ethan's thumb is bleeding."

Deborah turned to smile at him. "I'm just getting him a plaster, love."

"Oh," said Caleb, and then turned to Ethan. "You shouldn't bite your nails, you know."

Ethan nodded. "I know."

"You know, the other kids will think it's gross." He made a face. " _I_ think it's gross."

Ethan huffed. "You think _milk_ is gross," he said.

Caleb's mouth opened into a gaping hole of pure affront and he crossed his arms, squaring up to Ethan. "Milk is _disgusting_ ," he said.

Deborah strode over, box of plasters and packet of tissues in hand. "Boys," she warned.

Caleb stood down. He swung his arms at the side. "Sorry, mum," he said. His face lit up, and he turned to Ethan. "I'm on the school council now!" he declared.

"I _know_ ," said Ethan.

Deborah giggled. "He'll be running for Prime Minister next," she whispered to Ethan.

Caleb made a noise of annoyance. "What does the Prime Minister even _do_?" he asked. The question had been playing on his mind for a long time. He kept seeing the Prime Minister in front of a black door, but he didn't understand what she actually _did_.

Deborah bit her lip, shoulders convulsing in silent laugher.

Ethan's lips pressed together. He looked rather prim when he did that. "The Prime Minister is _important_ ," he said. He knew the Prime Minister was important because he always saw her in pictures in Dad's newspaper. He wasn't allowed to stay up to watch the news.

"Well, yeah," said Cal, "but _why_ is she important. Last I saw everyone hated her so she can't be _that_ important because she's not very good."

Deborah's laugh became audible, and she snorted as she smoothed Ethan's plaster down. "Don't let your Dad hear you say that, love," she giggled. "He voted for Mags."

"Thank you," said Ethan, looking at his plaster. He wondered if he'd have to explain why he had a plaster to the people at school.

"Mags rhymes with hags," stated Caleb.

"What does 'rhymes' mean?"

Caleb smiled, looking smug. "You learn to rhyme in Year One," he said. "You have to wait a year to learn to rhyme."

Deborah smiled and thumbed over Ethan's school jumper. "Rhyming is when two words sound the same," she said.

"Oh," said Ethan. "Can I have some breakfast please?"

"Yes," said Deborah, "and then it's off to school."

 **O**

As soon as they reached the playground, Caleb darted off to play with a group of boys and their football. He still towered over everyone else – much unlike Ethan, to whom it was clear, even though he clung to Deborah's hand and didn't speak to anyone, that he was much smaller than everyone else in the playground.

Terrence's mother strode over. She was as tall and as sculpted as ever, and Claudine had been replaced with a newborn in a sling.

"Claudine starts school today, too," she said to Ethan. "Do you want to go and play with her?"

Ethan stared up at the tall woman, eyes wide. He opened his mouth, but he didn't know what to say, so he closed it again.

Deborah smiled and squeezed Ethan's hand. She kneeled down next to him and pointed to a tallish girl with quite astounding frizzy hair. "That's Claudine," she said. "Caleb is friends with Claudine's brother."

Ethan pursed his lips. "Terrence."

"That's right," said Deborah. "They're very nice, love. You don't need to be scared."

Ethan loosened his grip on Deborah's hand. "How do I talk to her?" he asked.

"Just go over and say 'hello, my name is Ethan! Can I play?'"

"Hello, my name is Ethan. Can I play?" murmured Ethan, before turning to his mother and giving a determined nod. "Okay," said Ethan, and slipped his hand out of Deborah's grasp.

He pushed his shoulders back like he'd seen Caleb do (and Caleb was on the student council, after all, and a junior) and took the longest strides he could over to where Claudine was standing. She was talking to another girl whose hair was tied with navy blue ribbons in high blonde bunches. She was _pristine_ , and Ethan glanced down at the milk stain on his jumper. He stopped and began to lift his hand to his mouth, this time chewing on his index finger. Realising what he was doing, he pulled it from his mouth and stuck it at his side.

"H-hello," he said. Claudine and the pristine girl turned around. "My name is Ethan. Can I play?"

Claudine's face lit up. "Ethan!" she declared. "We wanted to play 'it' but we needed someone else. Can you be 'it'?"

Ethan nodded. The pristine girl shifted from foot to foot, looking Ethan up and down with two watery blue eyes, but said nothing.

Maybe being at school wouldn't be that bad after all, Ethan thought.

The pristine girl piped up. "Were you biting your nail?" she asked. "You're going to get worms."

The thought of pink, slimy worms sliding all over Ethan was enough to start making him feel sick. And if he was biting his fingers, the worms would end up _inside_ him, and they'd eat all the lettuce from his dinner, and then he would get fat. He wondered, for a second, if there were already worms living inside of him. He'd spent a whole day in June being sick, after all – and worms sounded the same as germs, which is what mummy said were making him sick. And then he paled. He must have given Caleb the worms, too.

Claudine's eyes travelled down to Ethan's hands. She forced a smile. "I don't think a worm could live on your finger without you seeing it," she said. Ethan relaxed.

The pristine girl eyed Ethan warily. She seemed not to be convinced by Claudine's reassurances. "Well," she said, "you can play, but you _have_ to it me with your other hand. I don't want worms."

He hoped Claudine found someone else to play with at playtime.

As it turned out, Ethan didn't play with them before school at all, because a loud brass bell started ringing, and a lady came out of the classroom. She was smaller than Deborah, Ethan thought.

"Line up here, please, children," she said, and stuck her arm out in front of her. The pristine girl pricked up and ran forwards, standing straight-backed at the front of the line, her shoulders pushed back.

The rest of the children filed in behind her at various speeds. There were two boys in front of Ethan who were pushing each other. Caleb sometimes played like that, Ethan thought.

The teacher glanced at the two who were fighting, but she didn't say anything. The children filed into the classroom one by one and the teacher, as though a broken record, said 'good morning' over and over again, until everyone was inside.

She stood at the front of a large carpeted space and smiled. "I'd like you to all sit down on the carpet," she said. A chunky ginger boy of average height looked heartbroken. He had been making a beeline to the box of Lego.

It took about two minutes for everyone to sit down on the carpet, as there was kerfuffle and commotion over who was going to sit where. Ethan tagged onto Claudine and sit down on one side of her, and the pristine girl sat on the other side of her. The teacher remained standing until everyone was sitting down, but she didn't look cross about it taking so long. When all of the children were sitting down, she sat down too, but on a big orange chair. It was cushioned, and it had extra green chequered cushions on it too. The teacher sat on the extra cushions and not on the orange cushioned bit. Ethan supposed the built in cushions were actually quite itchy. They _looked_ itchy.

The teacher crossed her right leg over her left leg and smiled down at the sea of four year olds in front of her. "I want you to try to remember where you're sitting, okay?"

Ethan pressed his lips together and nodded. "Next to Claudine," he murmured.

The teacher glanced over at him. "Could you be quiet, please?" she said.

Ethan nodded and stared down at his knee.

The teacher beamed around at the class. "My name is Miss Myers," she said. "I'm going to say 'Good Morning, Green Class', and I want you to say 'Good Morning, Miss Myers back to me."

"Good Morning, Green Class," she said.

"Good Morning, Miss Myers," the class chorused. Ethan mouthed the words. He wanted to say them, but he'd done something wrong, and now he had a lump in his throat.

The teacher pulled a large green book from under her chair and opened it up. "I'm going to do a register now to see who's here. Please say 'good morning, Miss Myers when I say your name." She paused for a moment. "Good morning, Tom Appleton."

"Good morning, Miss Myers."

Miss Myers looked over at the boy who had responded. He was small and had a mop of brown hair atop his head. She offered him a smile.

"Good morning, Milo Baxter."

"G'mornin, Mith Myerth."

This was a boy who already had a missing front tooth. He had straw coloured hair, and his shorts had been darned and mended once already.

So the names continued. Lizzie Craven, Anton Chickoree, and then:

"Good Morning, Polly Dunbar."

The pristine girl with her bunches looked up into Miss Myers's eyes and smiled. "Good morning, Miss Myers," she simpered.

The corners of Miss Myers's mouth quirked into a soft smile, and she continued on. Elise Dunning, Paul Edwards, Olivia Frances, Paul Fraser, Milly Glenn –

"Good morning, Ethan Hardy."

Ethan's head pricked up. He opened his mouth. "Good Morning, Miss Myers," he said. His voice sounded very loud in the quiet classroom, and he cowered. He didn't want everyone to look at him.

Miss Myers looked at him for a second and then nodded. Ethan wondered for a second if she had taught Caleb. The names continued.

"Gordon Hennessey, Luke Heirons, Ella Jung, Anji Kapoor, Andrew Muirhead –

"Good morning, Claudine Shodipe."

Claudine grinned up at the teacher. "Good morning, Miss M!" she said.

Ethan shifted his weight onto the left side of his body and played with his thumb. He hoped that the teacher didn't get cross with Claudine.

"Miss _Myers_ ," said Miss Myers, though she was smiling, and then she rounded the register off with Emmeline Walker.

Ethan wondered if Emmeline Walker could spell her name. Ethan couldn't spell Emmeline.

Miss Myers started talking again. "We're going to start the day with _Literacy_ ," she said, as if Literacy was a gift she was bestowing upon the children, forever to be praised for it. Ethan's heart leapt up, and he sat up straight. Caleb liked Literacy, and he said that if you could read you always did pretty well in Literacy. Ethan could read. He wondered if he should put his hand up to let his teacher know, but he decided not to.

" _Who_ knows the alphabet?" asked Miss Myers.

Most of the class, including Ethan, and certainly including Polly, who seemed rather smug about it, raised their hands.

Miss Myers's eyes lingered on chunky ginger Andrew Muirhead for a moment, who was one of four people who hadn't raised his hand. She smiled around at the classroom. "I'm glad to see that so many of you are experts!" said Miss Myers.

A small smile played on Ethan's lips. He was an _expert_.

All of a sudden, worry seized him. He wasn't a very good handwriter; he worried that Miss Myers might think he was a liar if he had to write it down. He clenched his sore thumb. Miss Myers would think he was a baby if he bit it. He wondered for a moment if he would always feel so nervous at school.

"But for those of you who aren't," said Miss Myers brightly, "we're going to go over it for a lesson!"

 **O**

Ethan was _bored_. He usually liked knowing things, but it felt like Miss Myers only cared about the people who didn't know things, and Andrew Muirhead had been sitting and going 'Mmmmmmm' instead of 'Nnnnnn' for the past two minutes.

"Nuh," said Ethan firmly, amongst the drone of 'Nnnnn' and the occasional 'No, Andrew, listen to me – Nnnn, not Mmmm… Andrew, Andrew, look at my mouth.'

"Nuh is letter 14."

Claudine patted him on the back from the side, and Polly sent an anxious look in his direction, but nobody else seemed to care very much. He fiddled with his plaster. Mummy would care, he thought. At least Claudine cared.

Miss Myers pressed her lips together and smiled toothlessly at the sea of children before her. "It's 10 o'clock," she said.

Ethan didn't really know what 10 o'clock meant.

"That means it's _playtime_." She walked over to the left side of the classroom and stared at Gordon Hennessy and Luke Heirons. "When the bell rings, I want you to line up _quietly_ ," she said. Gordon Hennessy cocked his head to the side. Miss Myers offered up a brief smile. At least the child was _attempting_ shame.

 **O**

As it turned out, all anyone ever wanted to do at playtime was run around, including Claudine and Polly. Ethan didn't really like running around, and he was disappointed that the infants and the juniors didn't share a playground. That meant that he didn't see Caleb. He pulled at his plaster, stumping around the perimeter of the playground in circles.

Luke Heirons jumped on Gordon Hennessey and punched him, and Gordon Hennessey punched back. Ethan flinched, his fingers still pinching the top of his plaster, and then his face erupted into a look of surprise when a flood of air hit his thumb and it started to sting. His plaster had come off. He stared between his plaster and his thumb. He tried to stuff his thumb back into the plaster hole, but the plaster didn't want to stick, so he dropped the plaster, stood in place and stared at his thumb.

If he was at home, he'd go to Mummy, and if the infants and juniors had the same playground, he'd go to Caleb. He didn't know where to go, and he didn't really know what to do at school. Years later, he'd come to the (fairly solid, in his opinion) conclusion that Caleb had simply had bad taste in his enjoyment of school, but at four and a half, Ethan was convinced that there had to be something wrong with him.

A large shadow came up at Ethan's side. "Hey," it said. Well, shouted. It was a very loud voice. "Do you know your thumb's bleeding?"

Ethan turned his head to look at the owner and flinched back. He felt a bit mean saying so, but Andrew Muirhead's face scared him when it was so close. He fixed his glance at a patch on Andrew's cheek where four or five of his numerous freckles had merged to become one large mark.

"Please could you step back a bit," mumbled Ethan.

Andrew Muirhead stepped back. "You should go to medical for your thumb," said Andrew. "Hey, I'll take you!"

Ethan stared up at him, and then nodded. He'd get told off for bleeding, he thought, if he interrupted his lesson with it. Andrew chatted away to him as they walked through the school hallway. The floors, Ethan noticed, were made of fake wood, and the walls were bright yellow.

A woman was sitting in medical with a girl with a bleeding knee. It looked like it had been ripped to shreds by a wolf, and there was lots of dirt in it. Ethan pressed his lips together and stared at it. The woman put a plaster on the girl's knee. Ethan's lips parted.

"You should clean her knee before you put a plaster on it," said Ethan.

The woman, the girl, and Andrew all turned to stare at him, and Ethan closed his mouth. He shouldn't have said anything. But then the lady's face broke out into a smile, and Ethan wondered for a second if she was going to laugh at him. Caleb would laugh.

"You're quite right!" said the woman, before turning to the girl. "Sorry, Emilia," she said. "I'm going to have to take that plaster back off." Emilia winced as the plaster came off her knee. "This is magic water. It'll make your knee get better quicker."

Ethan nodded sagely. If it was cleaning her knee, her knee would _definitely_ get better quicker.

The woman glanced up at him. "Sorry, Ethan!" she said. She patted the chair next to Emilia, and he sat down, keeping his thumb folded into his palm until the woman was finished with the girl. Soon enough, the girl had sprung off the chair and was going back into the playground.

Ethan stuck his thumb out, then glanced up at the woman. "How do you know my name?"

"Young Caleb talks about you constantly." She took hold of Ethan's thumb, examined it for a moment, and then gave Ethan a disapproving look. "Nail biter?"

Ethan hung his head and nodded.

The woman tutted. "Well, I'm sure you'll grow out of it."

From the hallway, Andrew piped up. "My oldest sister is 16 and she still bites her nails!"

Ethan's heart sank. He was going to be disgusting forever.

"I think there's worse things!" said Andrew. "I mean, my dog – he's, he's, he's a laboradory – Labrador – he eats his poo!"

The lady tittered from her stoop over Ethan's thumb. "What a silly dog!" she said.

Ethan stared down at his thumb. He didn't much like dogs. Dad hated dog owners; he said they were the scum of the Earth – _especially_ when they didn't clean up their dogs' poo. Andrew didn't seem like _scum_ , but he did speak very loudly.

"Oh, hello!" said the lady, distracted by someone in the hallway.

"Hi, Miss!" said the someone.

Ethan's face lit up. "Caleb!" His brother was standing outside the medical room with three folders in his arms.

Caleb looked at Ethan, but didn't say anything. "Here, Miss," he said, holding the folders out to the lady. She took them and gave Caleb a warm smile, and he gave a polite nod in return, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

"Thank you, Caleb. Ethan here's hurt his thumb."

Caleb rolled his eyes and sighed, slumping forwards and then back as though he'd a puppeteer who'd lost all his muscle tone. "How many times have we told you not to bite your nails, Ethan!" he said.

"Sorry," said Ethan.

Cal let all his air come out at once through his nose, in a 'hmph' noise. "Don't do it again," he said, and strode back into his classroom.

Ethan glanced up at the lady. A strange sad feeling built up in him and made him feel like he wanted to cry, but Caleb had said that children who cried on their first day of school were babies, so he swallowed as hard as he could.

"That was a bit mean," said Andrew.

Ethan glared up at him. "He's my brother, and he's _not_ mean."

"Mm," said Andrew. He was clearly unconvinced.

The lady smiled at Ethan. "All done, now," she said. "Playtime's nearly over, so go outside and line up straight away, please."

Ethan pushed himself off of the seat. He wondered if they'd finish the alphabet after playtime. He hoped so. He was getting bored of the alphabet. Caleb had done reading on his first day, and Ethan could read, so why couldn't _he_ do reading?

"Your plaster's got frogs on it," said Andrew.

"Has it?"

"Yeah."

Ethan looked down at his plaster, a look of vague surprise on his face. He hadn't realised his plaster was green. "Oh," he said.

"Why don't you talk that much?" asked Andrew, as they neared the threshold between the playground and the inside of the school.

Ethan shrugged – nobody had ever noticed anything like that about him before. He was saved from answering the question by the straight line of children that greeted him. He snapped his mouth shut and, ensuring he remained silent, half-jogged to the back of the line. Andrew took the journey at a much slower pace.

Seeing the green stuck to Ethan's thumb, the teacher said nothing of the boys' tardiness, though she stared straight into the back of Andrew's head as he made his way to the back of the line. Ethan sort of understood why; the boy _did_ take a while to get there.

Even so, there was no drama made of the debacle, and the class filed back into the classroom in perfect form and sat down on the carpet.

Once sitting, Claudine jabbed Ethan on the bicep and pointed to his thumb with her finger. "What's that?" she asked.

"'S a plaster," murmured Ethan.

"Yes, but _why_?" asked Claudine.

Ethan glanced up at Miss Myers, who was standing next to the alphabet with 'O' pinched between two fingers, and he pressed his lips together. Claudine tried to get his attention for the rest of the lesson, so he stared up at Miss Myers with the expression of only the most intent listener. He was, of course, trying to wriggle out of the scrutiny that Claudine had him under.

To say that Ethan was relieved when Miss Myers said 'Zuh' would be an understatement. When she held her pen against the palm of her hand and jabbed it closed, then announced that it was time to 'learn through playing', Ethan could have collapsed from relief.

He stood up. His first destination was to be the sand table, to write the letters he had just learnt. Claudine followed him.

"Why do you hate me?" she asked.

Ethan looked at her a moment longer than he thought he should have. "I don't," he replied. "I don't want Miss Myers to shout at me."

Claudine sighed, and then ran off to join Polly in the home area.

 **O**

Deborah stood in the playground. Doing the school playground was easier now; the rumour mill following Ethan's illness had died to a murmur, and she had spoken to more than one new reception parent who was eager to hear about the teachers and the other mums. All in all, things had ended up better for Ethan's year group than she'd worried about.

She chanced a small smile upon realising that Terrence and Claudine's mother was, once again, late to pick her children up. She sometimes felt a bad person thinking about it, but she had been relieved that she wasn't quite as unreliable as her. Or, in nicer terms, not the only subject of playground gossip.

She had been trying, for the past three years, to arrive in the playground at least ten minutes before her children were let out of school to avoid any further incidents. Often, she found herself wondering whether John would have helped her to collect the boys on time if Caleb had been born two years earlier, or if Naomi had made it to school.

She banished the thought. John was a doctor. John was a good man; he had taken his oath to medicine and made his vows to her, and as a result of those obligations, could not be expected to have enough time for children.

Still, she wished he'd come home on occasion.

She was brought from her cruel introspection by the appearance of Caleb's class. Every time she saw them, she was surprised by the way that Caleb's head always seemed to poke above the rest of them. He'd taken John's height for his own, she thought – and his shoulders.

Caleb strode over to her, still so confident, and stood at her side. "Hello, mum," he said.

Deborah's face spread into a warm smile, and she stroked her hand over the top of Caleb's head. He shrugged away and glared at her, though he too had a smile spreading across his features. "How was school, sweet?" she asked.

"It was good," said Caleb.

He was already growing dismissive, thought Deborah, and she gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. "Tell me more – what was good about it?" she said.

Caleb fidgeted, bobbing up and down in his waiting-place. He glanced up at Deborah, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and swung backwards and forwards. "We're learning about the Egyptians," he said.

His voice was filled with awe and excitement, such that Deborah gave the top of his arm a bit of a rub. "Did you like that, lovey?" she asked, but before he could answer her question, they were distracted my Ethan's reception class filing out.

If Caleb poked up above the rest of his class, Ethan left a noticeable dip.

In true Hardy style – or perhaps as a result of John's mother's coaching, he maintained a good posture on his way across the playground to them. It seemed, however, to lack the confidence and stride of Caleb's walk. Ethan wasn't an excited student, thought Deborah. He was just a little boy walking across the playground to his parents.

"Hello, sweet!" she cooed as he approached.

His face lit up some, and his mouth quirked upwards with relief and familiarity. "Hello, mummy," he said. He reached a hand up to her, and she took it and squeezed it. He squeezed back with a grip amounting to no more than his four year old self.

"Did you like your first day of school?" she asked. In truth, she had been worrying about Ethan. Caleb had always been so confident, but Ethan was another matter entirely. He was a good boy, and a quiet one, and he wouldn't get into trouble – but she felt sure and sad that the reasoning for that was that he'd never be able to bring himself to get into any trouble.

"It was okay," shrugged Ethan.

Deborah sighed. Her judgement had not, on this occasion, erred. "What went wrong, love?"

"People are scary and I don't think some of them are very nice," he mumbled. "And all we did was the alphabet, and I already know the alphabet, and I didn't get to read at all."

Deborah rubbed at his shoulder. She knew Caleb had read a whole picture book on his first day, and that Ethan had been reading his school books with him. "How about you read a story to me when we get home, sweet?"

Ethan shook his head, focussed on where the toe of his shoe met the ground. "It's not the same," he mumbled.

"Cheer up, Ethan," said Caleb.

When Ethan stared up at Caleb, there was a hardness in his eyes that was both rare and dramatic, and Deborah reeled slightly. Ethan might not have inherited John's manner, and he certainly had Deborah's hair, but his eyes – his eyes were so like John's.

He didn't speak much on the way home.

 **O**

It was after supper, when Ethan had been left alone in the playroom to stew for a while, that Caleb cottoned on to the reason for his brother's coldness. He huffed and rolled his eyes, paying little mind to the odd look that Deborah gave him.

"What's that for, love?" she asked.

He clamped his mouth shut and looked her in the eye. "I forgot to tell Ethan about… about… Tommy Dunbar, because his little sister's in Ethan's class." In that moment, he didn't for a second consider that his lie was a bad thing. Mum might get cross with him. If mum got cross with him for the truth, it meant that she was upset, and he didn't want to make her upset. That was all.

Deborah gave him a brief smile. "Go up and tell him, then," she said. "He's in the playroom."

Caleb stood up and scampered upstairs. He pushed open the door to the playroom, and almost went back on the apology he had planned. "That's my train," he said.

Ethan picked at his plaster for a moment before starting to pack the red engine back into its box. "Sorry," he said.

Caleb's shoulders raised and fell. "It's fine, I suppose," he said, and then sat on the floor opposite his brother. He stared at the wall behind Ethan. "I am sorry that I was rude to you earlier," he said.

Ethan shrugged. "It's fine. You don't want to talk to me."

Caleb flinched backwards. He felt a little bit offended that Ethan had figured him out so quickly. "No, no," he said. "I _do_ want to speak to you."

Ethan crossed his arms and glared. "You were mean earlier. Even Andrew said. I said you weren't, but you _were_."

Caleb snatched the train from Ethan and put it on the shelf. "I'm _trying_ to say sorry. Miss Pugh said that you should always say sorry if you feel bad."

Ethan held his stare at Caleb for a moment, his lips pouted and his eyes steely. Then, as though all the will had drained from him, his stare softened and dropped and he stood up. He threw his arms around Caleb's ribcage. Caleb, surprised but not entirely upset about it, gave Ethan's shoulders a sombre rub. Ethan pulled away. His hair was mussed and his eyes dry but distressed.

"I don't think I like the people at school."

Caleb patted Ethan's shoulder. "It gets better – it does – but if you don't think things are getting better, you can come to the fence between infants and juniors and tell one of the older kids to come and get me and we'll…" He looked as though it was paining him slightly to be having the conversation. "We'll chat, yeah?"

Ethan's face hardened, and he nodded. "Okay."

Caleb straightened up, his eyes lightening and his shoulders pushing back. "But first," he said, grabbing Ethan's wrist, "you need to come downstairs. Mum's worried."

Ethan's head bobbed back and forth. He didn't want mummy to worry too much, so he slipped his wrist out of Caleb's grasp and began to stump downstairs.

"Hello, mummy."

* * *

 **Firstly, hello and thank you for reading.  
** **Secondly, I'm sorry this ended up so long - I hated writing this chapter.  
** **Thirdly, constructive criticism is - as always - very welcome.  
** **Alright, Alice out - thanks guys!**


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